Afterhours
by Selion
Summary: James catches Butch trying to steal from the medical stocks and has a seriously disproportionate response. Graphic description of non-consensual activities with a 16 year old and really just creepy overall.


"Aw, he's not that bad."

That's what his son always says about Butch. Some variation of that, or occasionally it's along the lines of 'It's not his fault he's like that'.

Either or both might be true. There's not much actual, real harm these kids can get up to, sheltered as they are and it's well-known that Ellen is a hopeless lush and a poor caretaker for Butch. It's a shame, really. A waste.

But right now, sitting in the darkened back office of the med lab, James sees a familiar, lanky frame sneaking through the front room and all those well-meaning excuses evaporate. The door had been locked. It's well past when the office is open and Butch "It's-not-his-fault" DeLoria is poking through shelves and lockers for something to steal.

James always wants to believe he's a forgiving man. _Benevolent,_ the way fathers and doctors should be. Always ready with a helping hand or a shoulder to lean on. But this, for some reason, is enough to tip him into a red, foggy haze and he's up and moving to quietly stand at Butch's back before he can catch himself and think about why this may be a bad idea.

So he'll just catch Butch instead.

He sees his hand reach out, close the distance between them, and settle on the taut curve connecting Butch's neck and right shoulder. The skin is burning hot, even under the thick jumpsuit and as his fingers grip down, the muscles tense like wires. Butch yelps, the sound loud in the empty room and James catches his left wrist as he tries to turn to run. He only struggles a little before James whispers, "Butch." It's a warning, and Butch heeds it. Probably unwisely. But he's a kid; full of bravery and potential mistakes, not wisdom.

"H-" Butch swallows. "Heya, Doc," he manages. Scared as he is, his voice is light and playful and it only adds to the fury James feels. Even now, physically caught digging through the lab's stock of rubbing alcohol, and he's trying to use his charm to get out of another mess. James' lips pull back from his teeth and he jerks Butch's hand up into the middle of his back and slams his chest against the nearby wall. He sees Butch's head bounce back off the surface and feels some small satisfaction as he sees the wince and the look of shock on his face. "Shit, c'mon watch it, okay?"

Other people, hell, even his own son, might be taken in by the big doe-eyed looks Butch is so adept at. Might accept the wheedling and the cajoling to 'c'mon, just give a guy a break' or might give in when he pouts to cover up the cheeky grin on his face and says 'aw, I didn't mean nothin' by it'. But that's not going to fly with him.

He wrenches Butch's wrist up higher, not high enough to start worrying about dislocations or breakage, but high enough for the kid to squeak in discomfort and start taking his breaths in shallow little pulls. His thumb is on the delicate web of veins on Butch's wrist and he can feel his pulse there. Can see it under his jaw as well as James leans in closer to talk quietly. Benevolent, right? That's the watchword.

He's just talking, and Butch is just listening. Worried, but not scared.

"I don't know what you think you're doing in here, DeLoria, but stealing from the vault doctor isn't a very smart move. What the hell were you even after? The alcohol? You know you can't drink that kind, right?" That's good. Stern, but he's in control and staying calm.

Butch just squirms under him. Nothing to say in his defence but a heavy huff of breath.

"You can't drink it and I need it for patients. It's _disinfectant._ You know. For when you and your friends can't stop playing with your switchblades and you come in here with bloody hands and that sheepish look on your faces."

He steps in even closer, hips brushing the curve of Butch's ass and oh. This is unexpected. He ignores the way Butch stiffens and pulls away, suddenly not breathing and trying to twist his head around to see the man behind him. James gets closer still, closing the gap again and molding himself against the quivering body under him and there's nowhere else for Butch to go.

He feels a little over warm, but this is going well. He touches Butch's hip and slides around it when he doesn't pull away.

"You're such a little fuckup, Butch. It disgusts me how much my son idolizes you and I can't wait until he grows up a bit and sees what kind of a poisonous influence you are."

His voice gets quieter, softer. Even to a thief, a born troublemaker like Butch, he can be compassionate. What kind of doctor isn't? "But I know, Butch," he whispers, so close his nose is grazing the edge of Butch's hair. He smells like cigarettes and hair grease and fragile rebellion. "I know you could be a good boy. If you really tried."

Butch's breathing is high and whistling, rushing out and getting sucked back in just as quick. Almost like he's panicking. But that's not it, is it? They're just talking, and there's nothing to be afraid of. James tilts his head and roughly presses his lips to Butch's neck. It's clammy with sweat and that pulse is still there, beating away. Butch flinches away, head craning against the infirmary wall. He makes a strangled noise and pants out "S-stop it, this isn't funny anymore, okay? Please." And it's nice to finally hear some manners come from that mouth. Nice, but it's not enough.

James pulls Butch away from the wall and spins around to lay him over one of the examination tables. He needs to use a little force when Butch doesn't want to be dragged across the floor or want to lie down flat, but it isn't much. Just crushing down on top of him when he tries to stand back up. A hand sinking deep into that ridiculous hair and pulling back until his breath stutters. A low threat murmured against the skin he'd just kissed: "Don't move."

James' hand trails down the slack body below him, neck to shoulder blade to the long slope of his spine and with a big shuddery breath… to the small, firm curve of his ass.

"Why are y- Doc, stop," Butch says, voice shaky and horrified. He can barely hear the words. "What are you doing?"

James smiles and it shows all his teeth but never makes it up to his eyes. "Just don't… move," he says. He grabs a pair of bandage scissors from a nearby tray and he cuts a ragged line from the crotch seam on Butch's jumpsuit all the way up to his neck as he gasps and keens under him, perhaps now realizing the severity of what's happening. Just cuts and doesn't think about the question. Because whatever this is, whatever his anger is making him do, he can't go back _now,_ can he? Not with Butch's suit in two useless flaps and his own cock rubbing up the back of his thigh.

"No! Fuck, just let me go… I just wanna go back to my room, okay?"

He spreads the ruined suit apart and gently touches the bare skin of Butch's back. It's not the first time, what with check-ups and physicals and all, but this is… so different. He's so soft and long and lean in that ephemeral way of youth. And Butch is twisting around and moaning deep in his throat and trying to push up off the table again with his one free hand. It's not working, but he's still trying.

"I won't ever try to take anything again, I won't-" he sniffs wetly, "-won't tell anyone. I'm sorry okay? I won't even _look_ at your fuckin' kid again, _please!_ " His voice is quavery and scared and it finally breaks on that last word.

James just hushes him and tells him to be quiet. That it's fine, there's no reason for any of that. He's not… he's not doing anything wrong. He's… He can't quite remember what it was. Asking Butch to do something for him? Or not to do something? All he can concentrate on is the way he's pushing up against the backs of Butch's bare thighs and then easing his smooth cheeks apart with his hand. He grazes a finger down the tiny, pink hole and Butch sobs. It's loud in the still empty room. And just like that, Butch gives up the struggle. He droops forward, silent. The way his bravado breaks apart so easily… he really is a child.

Spit eases the way in. There's a few things around the office he could use that would be better, but Butch might decide to take the opportunity to leave. And then they'd never get to finish their... _discussion?_ That was it, wasn't it? Yeah, that was all. His fingers press deep into the soft, clenching hole and James tells him everything's okay as Butch grips the table edge so hard his knuckles turn white and the leather surface squeaks.

"That's it," he croons as he unzips his own suit and presses up again, skin to delicate, quivering skin. "You might be a fuckup, DeLoria, but at least you're good for _something._ "

Butch struggles one last time. He tries to take back the hand that's still held between his shoulder blades. He's not strong enough to pull free. He tries to close his legs, twisting his hips forward. James just kicks them back apart, wedging his own vault-issue boots next to Butch's smaller ones. And he tries to say something, one more quiet plea for mercy when James finally slides into him with a distracted laugh and all else is wiped away.

By the time James comes back to himself, Butch has been crying so long that he's already stopped out of exhaustion, hollow-eyed and lips wet with drool. James shudders over him, not yet registering what he's done as his cock twitches and pulses inside Butch's limp body. He'd said what he needed to, so they wouldn't need to have this conversation again. James can straighten out the shelves and Butch can go back to bed. No harm done.

He touches the thin curve of Butch's lower back and wonders why it's wet. Wet and cold, the way James' own cheek feels. He slides his fingertips together and looks down at the boy shattered and shivering under him with his own tears still caught in his lashes. He feels a frown starting to surface on his face.

No… no harm done.


End file.
